a reflective and futile guide to life as an expat in england. formerly italy. formerly formerly korea.
but who really gives a shit anyway. are you still reading this? hello?

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Key Wish

Make no mistake. "Key wish" is not a hackneyed manifestation of my festive mood after another (overly long) piney-fresh and raisin-embedded holiday season. Rather, it reflects an anagram of my personal microcosmic zeitgeist: W H I S K E Y.

This freshly formed, cold (yet empathetic) friend of ours came to life on Boxing Day after Giulio and I had been obliged to house arrest by a three day snow storm (that left Giulio's hair looking like a bowl of vermicelli noodles).

The morning of Christmas Eve began with sunshine and breathtaking views over the Dolomites (not being trite, I am just at the moment a bit out of shape and easily winded). It really must be the most beautiful place in the world, but unfortunately you'll have to google it because the fog rolled in faster than I could find the zip to my ski pants to take a picture. And with that, our official Christmas photo was born, with us naturally behaving like wretched individuals and donning our whiskey jackets in front of the Italian Alps, which may or may not actually be there.

So we retired our skis for a few days in favor of staying indoors to honor a diet of ham and gnocchi. We did manage to escape for a couple hours one afternoon to build a snowman and go sledding- two activities that even the most vile of humans can recognize as exceptionally entertaining.

And on the fourth day, we had BOMBARDINO!!!!!!

Nevermind the epic snow and the sunshine and the view and all that, the bombardino is like, one of my favorite things in the whole world ever. If you too appreciate eggnog and a stiff drink, prepare to have your life changed the moment it first touches your lips. The caveat of course is that it's strictly limited to consumption whilst in the mountains- the recipe calls for one part eggnog, one part brandy, and "the spirit of the Alps". I don't even know what that is, but I do know that you shouldn't think about trying to make yourself a "skinny" version in Southern California, it belongs here:

When we returned to Milan I had a package waiting for me(!), which is probably the only thing that could have consoled my spirit after the major downer that was saying ciao to fresh air and daytime drinking. My mother (bless her) had mailed some of my favorite goodies from America, including the traditionally celebrated Christmas orange:

As a kid, I always received oranges in my stocking, but as I began to flirt with adulthood, they began to arrive in the form of CHOCOLATE!

If you've never had one of these things, it's really worth trying at least once. It comes as a dense sphere of orange-flavored chocolate that is artfully segmented and perfectly texturized into the likeness of a real orange. The most satisfying thing about it is that before opening, you have to slam it into something sturdy to crack it into its twenty segments:

Thanks to this, one day each year I am permitted to behave like the neanderthal I am inclined to be, with absolute freedom from social scorn. I like to take full advantage of this fact by getting into a low squatting position, cupping the orange in between my two hands, and repeatedly banging it against the floor well beyond the threshold required to get the job done. I derive an unparalleled pleasure from this.

Which brings me to the present moment- the anticlimactic eighth of January 2014, where I lie on my sofa considering all the New Year's Resolutions that have already been broken, meanwhile my laptop irradiates my ovaries, and I dream of inexhaustible chocolate oranges and sunny days above the fray.